Fieldwork was not Mycroft's forte
by infinitesparkle
Summary: Mycroft watches his brother being beaten to a pulp. More than once, actually. But is he really enjoying it? Or is his heart breaking? Does Mycroft Holmes have a heart? Mycroft POV. Rated T. References to torture/violence. Enjoy.
1. Mycroft devises a plan

Fieldwork was not Mycroft's forte.

He knew that, and yet here he was. In a damp, unhealthy Serbian cellar, posing as one of Moriarty's generals. Mycroft studied the pattern of the bricks making up the cellar wall. It was not a pleasing pattern. The lack of symmetry bothered him.

In front of Mycroft a prisoner was being tortured.

...

Mycroft was going to have to go to a lot of trouble to find Sherlock, he realised.

He was sitting behind his desk in London. His assistant had brought him a tray of tea the best part of an hour ago and the tea was still there; long-since gone cold. Biscuits also untouched. Mycroft's fingers were steepled under his pale face. Keen eyes studying something that he was seeing in his mind's eye.

Since his brother had been away, things had been… difficult. No-one to bounce ideas off, no-one to run his errands. To start with he'd had regular updates from Sherlock via various operators in Europe, ending with a report from Serbia. And then suddenly nothing. Silence.

And now this. Mycroft scrutinised the documents on the desk. An underground terrorist network operating in London. The threat imminent.

The information Mycroft now had on the Moriarty network was extensive. Sherlock had done his job well. Mycroft knew that MI6 could send in one of their highly-trained agents to infiltrate the Serbian cell with an almost certain possibility of success. The problem was that MI6 were never going to allow any of their highly-trained agents to risk going in to rescue someone with no official status, no official role. Someone who was technically dead, for goodness' sake.

The thought of Mycroft going undercover was ludicrous. Had he run it past anyone else in the department they would have believed it a joke. Mycroft: physically unfit, practically chained to his desk. True, Mycroft was used to turning up in out-of-the-way locations for secret meetings. But always to be whisked away again to safety by a bullet-proof limo. If Mycroft was caught by enemy agents, he could spill enough state secrets to bring down the entire British government. Mycroft knew the powers-that-be would never allow such a liability.

Mycroft's adept mind could see every eventuality of the potential mission. Every possible outcome. Going with no official endorsement, no official backup would be...well, it would be extremely dangerous.

Mycroft's brow wrinkled with distaste at thought of the conditions he would have to endure. There were few hotels that would ordinarily meet his standards. He wasn't used to roughing it. He remembered as a child when he'd stayed away camping with the Boy Scouts. That had been a mistake. He remembered the terrible mud, the camp-fire smoke in his lungs, sleeping on uneven ground. Ugh. Mycroft's fingers unconsciously straightened the items on his tea-tray at the vile thought. Serbia was going to be worse than Scout camp, he imagined.

But bringing Sherlock back was paramount to the safety of the country. It was tactical. It was logical. And the goldfish representing the rest of the security services could not be expected to understand that. And that was why Mycroft had to go. Cold logic dictated it.


	2. Mycroft is uncomfortable

The Serbian's methods were somewhat lacking in sophistication.

Regrettably, there had been occasions in Mycroft's life that had required him to be a party to torture. In an observational capacity, of course. His mind went back to Moriarty's interrogations in particular. Such interviews required patience. The purpose being to cause pain… yes, but more than that to exert control, and to prise the object's identity from him over time. Apply too much pressure, too quickly, and one would be flogging a dead horse, so to speak.

No-one seemed to have informed the Serbian of this, whose appetite seemed to be for brutality. Apparently tiring of fists, the interrogator had latterly moved on to a collection of metal instruments. Nothing like doing things the old-fashion way, thought Mycroft. He suppressed a sigh.

The cold of the cell was wearying, and the prisoner was beginning to weaken. The constant restraints and lack of water were doing their job. Normally Mycroft would have watched from behind a one-way glass screen, free to walk away, able to switch the sound off.

Mycroft was uncomfortable. Sitting in the underground room was not pleasant. The place was damp and he was sure there were rats present. The cold was affecting his sinuses, and, judging by the odour, the interrogator didn't appear to be acquainted with washing. The prisoner groaned deeply as an iron-wrapped fist made contact with his ribs. The sound was irritating Mycroft and he wished the prisoner would assert some control over the noise he was making.

The food wasn't agreeing with Mycroft either. Just after watching the first beating he had to quickly find some privacy behind the building to allow himself to vomit, his legs feeling shaky. Some sort of food poisoning he supposed. Mycroft wanted to go home.

...

Mycroft wanted to go home.

The transition to boarding school had not been easy, but he had accepted it, there being no other option. Blubbing down the telephone to mummy and daddy would have been out of the question, and, had he ever done that, the other boys would have soon shown him the error of his ways by singling him out for some rough treatment. Now and again Mycroft's thoughts wandered without permission; to his garden at home, to Redbeard; to his own bedroom and his own space, rather than a dormitory shared with seven other boys. But those things were not here, so to dwell on them was futile. One had to just get on with it. Stiff upper lip. Mycroft was intelligent - highly so, and he soon worked out how to keep his head down, how to minimise contact with the other boys, and how to avoid making enemies.

But then came Sherlock.

For someone so bright Mycroft could not understand how Sherlock could be so utterly stupid. The small curly-haired boy very quickly got the attention of the class Neanderthals. His manner so arrogant, so _impertinent_. He seemed to apply absolutely no filter on what he was saying, regardless of who he was talking to. The boys at the top of the pecking order found him entertaining; the way he would walk along muttering to himself, seemingly in a world of his own. His geeky enthusiasm for chemistry, but bewildering lack of knowledge about anything else practical. Then when he started talking to the older boys as equals, scarily insightful and too close to getting under their skin, Mycroft knew that Sherlock was headed for trouble.

Baiting Sherlock became the new favourite game. And how often they played it! To begin with Sherlock exacted revenge on his tormentors with his quick put-downs. His uncanny observations causing humiliation to his persecutors more than once. But wit was no match for physical strength, and no match for strength in numbers. Sherlock had no allies, no friends at all. Mycroft could see no point in becoming involved. It would be senseless to put them both in the firing line. So he took the only rational course of action and distanced himself from Sherlock as much as he could. Not cowardice. He was simply doing what needed to be done.


	3. Mycroft's cigarette break

Mycroft's hand shook as he inhaled from his cigarette. It wasn't low-tar, but he wasn't concerned about that at the present moment.

He was sitting inside the grey building on the cell's military base. The base was a dismal place to be; some of the soldiers in Moriarty's cell merely boys, inexperienced and homesick. He hadn't been idle since his arrival. In becoming acquainted with the guards his grasp of Serbian had paid off; in truth he'd been learning the Serbian language ever since he had known his brother's plans to come here.

Now Mycroft had enough intelligence for a rudimentary escape plan. He had learnt there would be an opportunity to secure the rescue of the prisoner; a small window of time with an almost certain chance of escape, in just over 24 hours. Of course, if Mycroft left on his own, he could choose when to go. He could drive away now if he wished.

But if he stayed another 24 hours then tomorrow morning he would be supervising another interrogation.

Mycroft was beginning to doubt his suitability for the mission. Something had happened earlier that had shaken him to his core. And it was just this:

Mycroft knew that the interrogator had been refraining from striking the prisoner's head, in order to ensure he remained conscious and able to talk. It made sense. But just as the interrogator had seized a handful of the dark curly hair the door had unexpectedly opened, one of the guards coming in with a message. As Mycroft looked up he made the mistake of glancing at the prisoner's face for the first time since his arrival, and his eyes made contact with Sherlock's.

If Sherlock knew who he was then he didn't react. Despite the damage to Sherlock's body, his face was still untouched. Perfectly familiar. His brother's face. It was so pale.

It reminded him of when Sherlock was a boy and broke his arm. He had been climbing a tree so he could get a better look at something in one of the neighbouring gardens. When Mycroft had seen him fallen, on the ground, his face was exactly the same. A mask of agony, but despite that he had barely cried.

Mycroft had thought he could treat this assignment like any other. But when Mycroft had seen Sherlock's face the feeling was so intense his first thought was to make it all stop right then, regardless of any consequences. But disturbingly there was another part of him that just wished the interrogator had done a better job on Sherlock's face. Because the incident had upset him and now he couldn't focus.

Mycroft knew, he did know, that there was something wrong with him, with _them_. Something in their emotional set-up that was lacking. He was intelligent enough to know that. It's just that they'd been shaped by a system that sought to control, and to break, from an early age. A system that taught you not to show, and eventually over time not to feel. One that taught you you could be invincible, if only you could learn to master yourself.

And Mycroft had done well for himself. Back in London he _was_ invincible. Pulling the strings, he could work the British government like puppets. But here in Serbia his brother was hurting in a very real sense and there wasn't a single thing he could do to change that at the immediate time. If he went in all guns blazing it would mean certain death for both of them. He had considered it.

Mycroft inhaled again from his cigarette and coughed, slightly disgusted with himself. He remembered when he and Sherlock used to smoke behind the garden wall at home, naively thinking that his mother didn't know what they were doing. Probably nothing got past Mrs Holmes. He wished they were there now; having an illicit cigarette together. If they got out of here they should do that. They really should. And stop pretending to each other that they'd both quit. That they were stronger and less damaged than they were.

Away from the harshness of school, in the long summer holidays, Mycroft and Sherlock were... almost like friends. Mycroft used to tell him stories. Actually come to think of it Sherlock may not have liked those stories very much.

And then, when Mycroft left school, he and Sherlock had been like strangers. His mother had told him that Sherlock was not doing very well. And when he and Sherlock had finally met up and Mycroft had seen the glazed look in Sherlock's eyes it confirmed that Sherlock had moved on from just the cigarettes. Mycroft could have provided him with help; the very best help. But Sherlock wouldn't accept anything from Mycroft; didn't want it. Mycroft did understand in a theoretical sense. The pain has to go somewhere. But Mycroft had no idea what he'd done with his.

Mycroft inhaled one last time and put out his cigarette.

He pictured Sherlock just 100 or so metres away, chained up, alone and cold. Probably wondering what Mycroft was doing. Waiting for him.

And Mycroft couldn't even go to him.

And tomorrow morning someone was going to hurt Sherlock again. And Mycroft would watch.

Mycroft was a rubbish big brother, he really was.

...

Mycroft watched as they beat his brother.

There was hair on the floor. Fistfuls and fistfuls of black curly hair collecting on the classroom floor. Tears streamed down the boy's face and from the corner of the room Mycroft watched the boy with shame. The crying was embarrassing. After all pain was just neurological messages to the brain. One should learn better control.

Sherlock had tried to fight back; at least in the only way he could:

"I know what's in your locker", he goaded the ringleader. "I know why you keep looking in there all the time."

The older boy grabbed Sherlock's mouth with his whole hand, fingernails digging into Sherlock's face. Then fists, hard boots, chairs clattered over as Sherlock went down onto the floor. Then blood. The watchers at first laughing derisively started to shift uncomfortably. Their smiles pasted thinly over growing consternation. The beating had gone too far and they knew it. But no-one entertained the thought of breaking ranks.

From the back of the room Mycroft looked down at the pathetic, unworthy figure, and through the blood and dirt from the floor, Sherlock's desperate eyes came up to meet Mycroft's. His young face still with traces of its baby roundness, eyes bright with tears. Lonely, terrified and completely lost and bewildered. Out of his depth in a world that he clearly didn't have a map for.

It was just a look, but Mycroft knew what it meant. Sherlock was effectively on his knees begging. He was asking Mycroft to step in.

_Why didn't you intervene?_

Mycroft knew what it must have taken Sherlock to request his aid at that moment. The dent in his pride it would leave, given the values that were instilled, drummed into them day after day: independence, self-reliance. Mycroft knew what it was costing Sherlock to ask for his help.

And Mycroft looked away and allowed himself no compassion.


	4. Whoever cracks first

Mycroft slowly descended the steps to the cellar the next morning, for what he believed would be the penultimate interrogation. Thankfully Sherlock did not look up at him as he walked past. Mycroft took his place at the back of the underground room and sat down.

He watched as the interrogator picked up a length of lead piping. The interrogator adjusted his stance a little and swung the pipe back and then forward hard, aiming at Sherlock's shin. At the impact and at Sherlock's reaction Mycroft's stomach immediately felt tight and heavy and he drew a quick breath in and then swallowed.

The interrogator repeated this action a further three times, after which Sherlock's legs were no longer supporting the weight of his body. With an act of will Mycroft focussed his mind on what this would mean for them in practical terms. In order to get away, Mycroft needed to deliver Sherlock to one of the military vehicles parked outside. The steps ascending from the cell were steep and Sherlock, although slim, and not altogether as tall as people imagined, was muscular and Mycroft knew he would not be able to carry him. Mycroft cursed his own lack of physical fitness.

Sherlock was breaking.

Sherlock, who had learnt, eventually, to take beatings without reacting; who could go for days without food, and nights without sleep. Even Sherlock was only flesh and blood. Somehow Mycroft hadn't factored for this, and now he was worried; worried that Sherlock would give something away; and worried that if he didn't then it would be too late, and Mycroft would only be saving a corpse.

In truth Mycroft believed that Sherlock's injuries so far, although undoubtedly brutal and painful, were not life-threatening, and probably not permanent. If they were to leave with Sherlock in his current condition then he would be gallivanting about London again in due course. But dehydration could and did kill, and a few hours' difference could be critical; and furthermore Mycroft had no way of knowing at what rate the Serbian's violence would escalate.

Mycroft knew that in almost every interrogation there was a crisis point; a point where something would happen one way or another. Mycroft's experience told him that they were reaching this point now, and that he needed to make a decision.

In his head Mycroft placed the options side by side for comparison. If they left now he risked his brother being shot. If they stayed he risked his brother dying from injury or dehydration. As for the risks pertaining to himself, Mycroft had already weighed those up at the outset of the enterprise.

Mycroft examined his first option. The guard at the door was biddable and Mycroft could easily send him on an errand to remove him from the equation. The interrogator, although he clearly enjoyed his job, was not keen on following orders and could prove more difficult.

Mycroft's thoughts were coming adrift. He realised with cold clarity that he did not know what to do. He assessed the risks in his mind, but with no conclusion. Then he assessed them again. The problem being that he could not be sure that the decision he was leaning towards was not biased by sentiment. He had been careless about the direction in which he had let his thoughts travel on the previous evening. He had been indulgent. And now his brother's life was at stake because emotion had a stranglehold on him and he could not be sure of his own mind.

The interrogator shouted as his fist crashed into Sherlock's ribs. The blow sent Sherlock reeling backwards, muscles tight against the chains that were also rubbing raw on his wrists. Mycroft watched his brother's legs come up instinctively against the impact to his body, in some pretence of protecting himself.

Sherlock was breaking.

Mycroft was breaking.

Mycroft's attention snapped back to the present as he realised Sherlock was whispering something to the interrogator. Mycroft felt his blood run cold as he realised that Sherlock had cracked and that they were both going to die there. Mycroft had delayed for too long and had failed in his mission. He had failed his little brother. It was over.

"He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair!" exclaimed the Serbian with incredulity.

Mycroft tried to take in what was happening as he watched the interrogator sprint up the steps and out of the cellar. He looked over at his brother, at the dirt and blood and bruising on his body, the curtain of matted hair and the eyes closed against pain and exhaustion. Apparently of the three men in the room, Sherlock had been the one in control. Sherlock had made the call and Mycroft was in no position to argue.

Mycroft picked up the key to Sherlock's shackles from where the Serbian had left it. Then he took a moment to compose himself. It was important for Sherlock's sake that Mycroft acted in a business-like manner now. They were not out of the woods yet and he needed Sherlock to focus. If he showed too much familiarity, Sherlock's adrenaline would dissipate and his pain would worsen, hampering their progress. Given what he had just witnessed, Mycroft had every faith in his brother's abilities to enable the project's completion.

Mycroft lifted Sherlock's head and spoke directly and urgently into his ear.

"Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London."

Mycroft continued to speak, an edge of warmth entering his voice now. "Back to Baker Street, Mr Sherlock Holmes".

Beneath the mop of curly black hair Mycroft saw his little brother smile.

...

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed it.**


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